


A Gilded Cage

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: Hiatus [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Blood Magic, F/F, Ink Magic, Praise Be to Doc, Praise Kink, Ritual Magic, Scar Magic, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: How long was she alone?A week? A month?Had it already been another year?---Or; Hermione finds being caged isn't so unwelcome.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: Hiatus [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521653
Comments: 13
Kudos: 114





	1. Tumbling Down the Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/gifts).



> Light Editing, based upon a prompt I'll put out in the last chapter.  
> 3 Shot

_**After** _

“Well then Little Birdie, if you think you’re so damned smart than how do you propose we address this? No, no, _you_ interrupted our discussion, completely uninvited may I add. Now, let’s hear it. Elucidate us, wise Little Owl.”

The assembled Lords and Ladies, thirteen in total, lay scattered far below her in a haphazard assembly around the table. Bellatrix stared up at her with a grin just barely noticeable, all the others just as silent as the grave while they awaited on _something_ to happen. Her answer? Another reproach? She wasn’t sure. Some of them looked far too fearful to form a response at all, others smiling devilishly up at her as if _they_ were in on the game. Still more looked to have expected her little outburst, or at least had been made aware of the fact that she even existed up above them before any of this began. The few who remained silent with stupefied expressions painting their faces were more than likely new to Voldemort’s grand vision of a Capital. Dignitaries, diplomats, maybe a political hostage or two. All of them never having walked among the hallowed lands of His new Kingdom, their new Capital. 

The aching silence dragged on second by second as they each began to look around, some in barely disguised fear, others turning to peer at her with wonder. Who was she, to poke her head from out her cage? Who was she to talk out of turn, while _He_ was here no less? What wonderous or frightful mystery could have led to _her_ of all people? What level of casual indifference led her to speak out of turn?

Or squawk out of turn, as Bellatrix was often so fond of calling it.

The boon to her odd little situation was that _she_ had an answer to the question they had been debating, one she was fairly sure all involved would agree with. Well, except one, perhaps.

Time to see whether Selwyn had an answer as well.

“Well first off did you happen to hear any rumours before you went and hired him? Did any of you or your underlings happen to hear anything bad about him at all, no matter how small or insubstantial it may have seemed? Or maybe something that you moved to dismiss as utter nonsense, related in any way to what he’s now accused of?”

Once again silence filled the hall and all their ears, a second passing before she shifted and peered down lower. She watched Selwyn as much as she could from her odd position as the man appeared to sweat, her _new_ position making it just that much harder for her to get an accurate look. Gods how she missed her old spot, a deep-seated longing for her prior placement just behind His chair. Selwyn’s moustache twitched as she waited on him, a walrus nibbling upon his own lip. Bit by bit, second by second, she watched as a flush appeared to colour his cheeks. Of course, the tinge was still nowhere near as bright as the red stain blotching his nose, a likely result of far too many years spent drinking fine liquors.

He was a pigeon, alone and friendless. And yet here _she_ was, still in a cage.

The old bastard could probably-

“Well then Lord Selwyn? We’re waiting.”

The voice that broke the solitude was a gavel in an empty space. The owner rose from atop His seat with all the singular grace afforded Kings of old, an ancient deity brought back to life with imposing anger and delight all wrapped up into an unkind package. It took Hermione only a moment to recognize the telltale caress of His magic stirring to action, something soft and comforting that fought to send her into a lulled daze when soon enough it mixed and melded with Bellatrix’s from down below her. The myriad of scars crisscrossing her body all suddenly sparked alight with joy as a particularly strong wave of emotion reached her cage, all her muscles stretching languidly while she preened and basked beneath the attention, every hair on her body standing on end. He moved only slightly, calm and composed, but that was more than enough of a threat to command all the rabble gathered at His table, the whole of them excepting two all turning away to face anywhere that wasn’t _Him._

The only two brave enough to not turn away?

Bellatrix was one, of course, for the Dark Witch was far beyond the petty machinations that He used to motivate those within his Court. And Selwyn. For _some_ reason.

The man seemed content to stare at their Lord, mouth gaping with all the grace of a dying fish before finally something seemed to click within his mind, and he realized that he had command of language instead of just stares.

“Well, m-my Lord, I hadn’t. Or rather, that is to say… I mean that we had heard rumours, but that was all they were, rumours!” The Walrus turned to stare back up at where Hermione lay, Cheshire grin painting her face. “The rumours were from a Mudblood no less. My Lord, it was hearsay of the worst kind.”

The grin pulling across Hermione’s lips stretched further into madness the longer that she peered down at the assembled Nobles, something predatory and hungry now that this little morsel had managed to founder his way into her trap.

“So then let me get this straight, you admit you knew of his proclivities? Of his little penchant for picking pockets?” A laugh tittered from her throat when she caught the looks of disgust now visible on all their faces, thin fingers scratching and scrabbling against the bars of her cell as she began to rock back and forth. She sighed into the maddening caress of His magic gently melding with Bellatrix’s, the combined weight of their displeasure sparking warmth between her legs. “Well if that’s the case then you fucked up, you magnificent arse. You and anyone else who knew are just as much at fault for his actions as he was. More even, in this case. You could have stopped it and chose to ignore it instead. Case,” she slapped the bar beneath her hand as harshly as she could, meat on metal ringing out, “Closed.”

With a final smack against the bars, she withdrew from the edge of his sight but not enough to lose the eyes of her Lord behind him. Voldemort was now just behind Selwyn’s chair, the long ivory wand pulled out to press against the sweating man’s neck with just the tip. It was as clear a threat as he would give nowadays, one that each and every one of them understood, and now it only remained to be seen whether he would deign to follow through or not. 

Regardless of his eventual choice, she couldn’t care as the events of the day had already turned out far more exciting than she had initially dared to hope. Or at least it had turned around well enough that if she was lucky she might end the night with a prize or two if he rather brazen little display was appreciated that was. It wasn’t _truly_ brazen; she had saved those moments for the first few months of her capture, back when she had still been uneducated and unable to appreciate the position she was given, and now so many years on with her hanging above all their heads she couldn’t find it within herself to care.

No, she was far, far past all that. The fear had been an annoyance once upon a time but now she could work well enough without it. The adrenaline rush that _Their_ twinned magic sparked within her breast was worth far more to her than any jolt she had received back when their threats still held malice or back when her words were more pleas and bargains for safety rather than moans of pleasure as she drank in their excess.

She’d learned all that well enough.

\---

_**Before** _

It took just less than a single month of living with a single stuffed bag filled to bursting with essentials for Hermione to determine once and for all that she would never go camping again.

Not once.

Not ever, and especially not when they managed to finish out this accursed mission from Hell. 

When month two rolled around she came to the startlingly academic realization that no, one could not, in fact, survive indefinitely off of poorly duplicated fish and batches of stale bread. Or mushrooms that had been padded out with a thinly ground flour made from bullrush. Yes, the effect made something that could be called bread, but no, it was still not something that she would coin as being truly _‘edible.’_

It was Hell. Complete and utter Hell.

And then without fail the third month came upon them with driving snow unlike anything that she had ever seen descend upon the Isle. A whiteout through and through, absolutely nothing and nowhere safe enough to wait out the storm in anything approaching comfort. Their heating charms and the thinly enchanted walls of the tent offered them only so much actual protection, and no matter how much wood they managed to bring in from outside the forest, or the speed with which they managed to dry up sopping logs, it was never enough. Never lasting. Their food ran out at just about the same time, leaving them all to become experts at procuring old tubers, dried bits of bark, and the spare leg of a rabbit or two that Harry managed to lure in with magic. They became without fail a couple of experts when it came to stealing from old farmhouses after only just the littlest bit of reconnaissance. Skilful thieves, once three, down to two.

Damn Ronald.

His loss was met with warm bellies when their stock of meagre food supplies grew to include old beans warmed up over an open fire.

Not much of a loss. Or so they had thought.

Winter continued to drag ever onwards until Christmas Eve was upon them, the concept of Yule pushed back into the public focus but forever Christmas to her Muggleborn heart. Trees, lights, and fake old men with long white beards were dotted all across the Muggle landscape when they deigned to approach civilization, their hearts and minds twisted up with flurries of oft confusing emotions as they watched the Mundane live their lives. Unfortunately, even those places weren’t safe now with Voldemort’s Snatchers on the prowl. Their pursuers were determined to look everywhere for them both; his magical missing Horcrux and the Girl who walked beside him.

They’d parsed out that little bit, Voldemort’s foul soul lodged within Harry’s head, due to a rather exciting and frightening few hours spent playing Speak n’ Spell with a snake in woman’s skin. She hadn’t been able to shake the shivers that ran on down her spine for nearly a day after she watched Nagini crawl her way back out of Bathilda’s broken mouth, a horror show that left her squirming in disgust even as they sat wrapped around one another with blankets and a roaring flame.

But time marched onwards, and soon enough three months turned to four.

No sign of Ronald.

Four months turned to five.

No fresh food, not with everything still frozen over now that true Winter had set in.

Five months turned to six.

The Snatchers had somehow found a way to follow their general movements, a displeasing development that left both of them scratching their heads in worry and wonder.

Six months turned to seven.

Snatcher’s physically camped right outside their wardline. Hell, they might as well have been camping with them. Pebbles kicked across disintegrated before they could reach the recipient.

She slept with one eye open.

Seven months turned into a year. Back again. Run round the bend, only to find old campsites and broken twigs. One year on the run. One year spent hiding.

One year of surviving on stale food, split mushrooms, bits of game when they could acquire it and no sense of rest. One year coming closer together than they could have imagined, yet still pushed apart by the Locket threaded between their necks. The magic contained within it linked them both up bit by bit, a heavy chain wrapping them together until they might as well have been one. And still, they were nowhere near close to finding another Horcrux, or a means of their disposal. Nothing they tried seemed to work, nothing they hit it with seemed to scratch the metal, and Harry could open it as much as he wanted without them getting anywhere close. All it did give them were headaches prompted by the ringing sound of Voldemort speaking Parseltongue.

Their last-ditch effort at defeating the soul-shard trapped within the confines of the Locket was with the application of Basilisk venom. Acquiring the small phial of liquid was an adventure in and of itself, fraught with danger and near misses all along the way. Their first trip back to Diagon, then Knockturn, almost turning into an impromptu visit to Bellatrix Lestrange’s waiting arms. Months of hard work, blood, tears shed at all the close shaves where their nightmares all became waking realities.

Hermione made the decision that she would no longer wear her hair down, or long, if she could avoid it. If only to keep the Snatchers from getting a good hold.

In the end, they’d decided to open it up, pour it in, and watch with hopeful faces. Hope soon turned to sour blankness when it became clear that this too was a dead end. A false trail. No more helpful than if they had decided to give the damned thing a bath. They left the Locket behind not much longer after that escapade, too worried to keep it around when Hermione suddenly found she could hold lively conversations with the snakes flitting about the woods.

She had been frightened before but hearing Harry approach from behind only to respond in kind with suggestive tones and an accent that was just _off-_

It was the last straw, one among many. Harry wore it from that point forward until the breaking point for him arrived. His hands clenched tightly around Hermione’s throat, a scream on her lips turned dead. Voldemort’s voice ringing through his head, lighting his ears on fire.

They left it behind where no one would ever look, both still hopeful that one day they would return to destroy it once and for all.

The strange dreams they’d shared quieted after that.

But her voice never quite sounded the same.

\---

Their second shared year on the run brought with it the first winds of change, true change, as Voldemort fully entrenched himself and his new Regime into their world. He kept all the titles, all the Nobles and Ancients, the Wizengamot with its storied histories and lengths, and the Ministry’s Hydra of Subcommittee’s, but now he was on top. Now with a Dark Lady by his side, co-ruler if not lover. The masses all seemed to have resigned themselves to their new fate, all the people of his kingdom more willing to celebrate the things that stayed the same rather than fight for those things they had lost. Life didn’t even change that much, all things considered.

Unless you were an Undesirable, of course. In those cases, it was Hell on Earth.

They managed to procure themselves a radio that brought in both Muggle and Magical stations, aware as they were that a lack of information was more likely to be their undoing than starvation or sickness. Or so it had seemed at first.

Month seventeen proved to be especially challenging when by happenstance a rogue group of Snatchers managed to wander their way directly inside the wardline they had erected around their camping space. A fight erupted as soon as the first foot stepped through, one hard-won and brutal to the end. Unfortunately, it marked Hermione’s last moment of what she could consider as being childhood innocence. 

Green lightning, pouring out her wand. Green bolts, smashing into their attacker’s chests. 

Harry only nodded at her actions, his eyes glinting just the same as her spells, and at that moment she knew it was not his first.

And that it wouldn’t be her last.

Something between them changed after they cleaned up from that encounter, not only their location or the speed with which they searched for a serviceable replacement for the Fidelius but between them as well. Where they had started on their quest as a Trio, they had then been broken down into a Duo and fought at each other’s necks over the beck and call of the Locket. But after she rolled three dead bodies into a shallow ditch, there was something more.

It wasn’t sexual, not at all, she made that quite clear to Harry the night he downed stolen brandy and tried to crawl up into the cot with her, but something shifted on a level far deeper than mere friendship. Kinship, maybe, she would call it if someone pressed her for a name. They were no longer two mere students fighting in an Adult’s war, and she was not a child any longer. Nineteen, verging on twenty, the both of them lost relics of a bygone form of heroism that seemed to have all but faded away.

Damn the Headmaster.

Damn Albus Dumbledore. 

Damn him and his insufferable need to play with all of his cards face down, never once revealed or shared for thinking that he alone could solve all the world’s issues. 

Harry was her brother not in blood but in experience, shared hardship.

Maybe that was why it broke her so much after he left.

\---

Year three arrived with little fanfare or celebration. What it did bring them was catastrophe given physical form.

Malady made real.

Bellatrix Lestrange, a whirlwind of disaster tuned and turned, evil given leave to hunt them down. If there had ever been any hope for their continued survival or the completion of their mission, the radio at their side certainly put those wishes to rest. It was clever really, and obviously cribbed from the maddened search that had been set on Sirius after his escape.

Muggles on the lookout.

Magicals only looking to protect themselves.

The Weasley clan all turned themselves in. Minus Ronal, who seemed to have simply disappeared into the ether. Kingsley was captured in a highly publicized raid, brought to trial, and shipped off to Azkaban for reeducation within a fortnight. Other’s simply went dark or slipped right back into their pre-revolutionary lives. Though it saddened her to hear it, Hermione was still immensely glad for the safety of the Lovegoods once it became clear they had both returned home, ready and now willing to print Ministry approved lies if it ensured Luna’s survival.

The World continued turning.

Life continued to be worth living.

Except for Harry and herself.

In their case all the walls closed in, the doors closed shut, and the dogs hounding their every movement seemed to grow closer with every day. Eventually, it became a common enough occurrence to have a run-in with a pack or two every day or so as they fled the forests where they had once survived. Those spaces grew to be off-limits, impenetrable, and thus they were forced to turn away and take towards the lonely countryside.

Every day was more desolate than the last.

Every day their skirmishes grew tougher, battles grew longer.

The body count increased in step with their malnutrition. Eventually, it was all just too much.

Too hard.

The wick of their minds burned low just as their bodies began to sputter and die, too much time spent surviving on nothing but faint hopes and gruel. Harry wandered off one evening as she remained standing there in their little slice of carved out safety, the look filling his green eyes so lost and forlorn that she wondered if he was dead already. They had hugged one last time, said their dues and well-wishes, and then he moved to pass beyond the border of their wardline.

Off into the night. Alone, but not forgotten. She didn’t know where he would go. Couldn’t, as he hadn’t seemed to have an answer to that either.

But when she eventually gave in their were members of the new Auror Corps waiting for her outside. Bellatrix Lestrange. Or Black, as Hermione was informed not even a second after the dead name passed by her lips. The older woman had merely pouted as if her game had ended too soon, all the fun sucked out of her day and disappointment clearly in her eyes. Hermione hadn’t cared a whit towards Bellatrix’s feelings or desires, no, she had only wanted to curl up on the ground and sleep.

Sleep, soundly and securely for the first time in years.

She had given up, sure, fine. But what was there to be gained from attempting to fight on? Of what use was her resistance? The general public seemed to have eagerly accepted the regime change. A pyrrhic victory made no sense.

Hermione fell down to her knees against the woman’s skirts, basking and relishing in the frenzied warmth that had seemed to radiate off Bellatrix’s skin. The ebb and flow of another’s magic was simply too much for Hermione to ignore.

She needed companionship, even at the price of her freedom.

How long had it been since she’d seen Harry off? How long was she alone?

A week? A month?

_Had it already been another year?_

She found she couldn’t remember. She found she really didn’t care.

Bellatrix had tutted before bending over to wrap a strong grip around Hermione’s bicep, her rather lithe figure wasting no time at all in hauling her up on shaky feet.

A crack, a pop, and they were elsewhere.

\---

**_Where does this fit? No one knows._ **

**_Not me! he cried, shoving nails into his eyes._ **


	2. Falling Ever Inward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up yesterday.
> 
> But I'm lazy.
> 
> Messy editing; i'll clean later if I remember

**_Before_ **

The rise up to the waking world was simply one of the most refreshing moments Hermione had endured in Merlin knew how long. The feeling, as if she were floating or something alike, was a balm to her bruised skin and howling mind; a comfort that left her mewling with all the strength of a newborn kitten. All around her blankets were piled high and fluffed near to bursting, some much softer than others but each of them warm and comforting. There were pillows piled high behind her head, warm downy blocks that she could sink back into forever, and the sweet scent of cinnamon covering every breath she took.

The feeling managed to settle her into a lucid  _ awake-but-not-quite-so _ state, the emotions of her frantic mind quieted for minutes if not longer, sweet contentment given form. 

At least until the clanking sound of metal on metal brought her heart to a roaring stutter and eyes widening in surprise. The gears of her mind turned slowly until enough momentum gathered to release a gasping exhale into the silence of her room, stilted and piercing even to her own ears. The images flooding through her mind from somewhere else brought watering eyes and strong memories of her Grandmother’s old birdcage; a thin shell that housed thinner little parakeets, sickly things that had seemed to cry more often than they sang.

Her first real thought that morning was that she might like to do the same.

She did, eventually. Though it was more in ecstasy than pain or terror.

But then?

Then her skin had burned.

Her heart pulsed.

The whole of her, every tendon and wayward patch of skin, seemed to crackle when she moved or stretched. Sparks of dark lightning shot off from her fingertips, the drips turning to dance and twitch as they fell back down to earth.  _ Something _ surrounded her, enveloped her, something heavy and wicked that pulled and spun itself along the aching fabric of her mind. The sensation was familiar in a manner, similar yet different, the same species but a different beast. She’d felt it before, knew it then as something  _ different _ to the Magic swirling underneath her skin, and had catalogued each and every instance she’d felt it after. 

It was Dumbledore whenever he made an audacious display of magic, his time at the Ministry practically drowning all of them beneath waves of his unregulated power. It was Harry whenever he let himself fall into the formless structure of a duel, body raging and instincts guiding him.

It was strength, it was power, it was all the glowing numbness of the aftershocks that followed a particularly wonderful fuck. When she first noticed their Aura she had wondered if  _ this _ was what drew people to follow them all, this nearly effortless pull and tug upon her soul. And feeling it now? After so much time spent being starved for comfort or affection, it was dangerous. Deadly, even. It could drown her if it wanted. Back in school, she had never felt this much power. Back then the pull had never once been this strong or willing to coddle her deep within its grasp. Harry had been inexperienced in his use of magic, unable or unwilling to draw upon it unless prompted to do so by accident, and Dumbledore had been too circumspect in his application of it.

Every other moment spent awash in this feeling had been tempered by the instigators reining themselves in.

But this feeling? It was deliberate now. Purposeful. A balm to her wounded body, nourishment for a depleted soul. 

**_“Do you like it?”_ **

The voice that hissed at her was ribbed in tones that she had only begun to understand a year or two ago, soft and nearly silent as it prodded the empty spaces of her mind. She nodded towards nowhere in particular, body moving before her mind was able to connect the words to movement, her body slowly shifting forward on the blankets as she fought to leave their cloying grasp. The rhythmic pulses of magic shooting up from down below her was a constant draw that had her mind pushing her body forward to bask in it. 

A need to lay down, and absorb every single drop of ecstasy.

**_“It’s quite the delicacy, isn’t it? Have fun…”_ **

The sibilant voice trailed off while still, her body lay there humming, a monumental burst of energy parting her lips until she cried into the silence. The energy dissipated for a second, a moment of blankness taking over, and with it she sought out understanding of where she was.

There was a ceiling high above her. Gold plating pitched upwards, a latticework of thin bars running lengthwise near the top, filigree and artisanal little touches giving it all the impression of an ancient tableau. The most prominent design theme depicted serpents; snakes twisted around one another, reams of golden scale, slit eyes and forked tongues pointed down at her from every edge of the metalwork. 

Unexpected. Odd.  _ Different. _

Her mind settled into the blanketing disquiet of confusion, thoughts blown out from her consciousness when  _ something _ pulsed through the air again, a groan of comfort spilling past her lips to pollute the stillness all around her. With a huff she made up her mind and threw the blankets off of herself, the piles of green and gold sloughing off to bunch up around her feet. The silky fabric was pleasing to the eye and skin but so very different from what she was used to, so very different from the cheap linens her family had bought or the old scratchy blankets that they had used for all their time on the run. 

Again, odd.

She turned to stare around the rather drafty cell -  _ so gold, so cold  _ \- before something seemed to  _ click _ inside her mind.

Grey.

Grey stonework, a magnificent window broken into twelve blocks with three panes each. Gargoyles holding braziers along the wall, serpents now, instead of the fanciful visage of the Houses as she had known them.

Hermione’s heart kicked into overdrive within her chest, a painful knocking ratcheting blood far too fast as she approached something close to shock.

Or maybe it was better said that she was falling into terror.

She leapt off the warm mattress and down onto the cold metal flooring, a pattern beneath her feet still gold and yet whimsically soft; a charm, mayhaps. The whole of the structure began to sway side to side with her movements as balance became something of the past, only saved from suddenly losing her bile when a particularly strong emanation of energy had her falling to her knees. She collapsed when it ran into her, her hands curling and sounds pouring from her throat that had her blushing where she knelt.  _ It burned- _

“Oh looky look, she’s awake, she’s awake! Little Muddy’s ready to play.” 

The voice that reached her was sing-song and sweet as honey, the tone however still just as barbed as a lance.

And familiar.

Hermione threw herself forward into the bars of her cell with all the expectation of finding someone standing beside her. But there was nothing. No one. Nothing at all besides open air and the startling realization that she was far, far higher than she would have imagined. The new perspective revealed her initial suspicions to be correct; she was in the Great Hall. Hogwarts.

At least fifteen meters suspended in the air.

_ Merlin above, she was in a fucking birdcage. _

An artfully decorated birdcage for sure, but a  _ cage _ nonetheless. The ribs and lengths of the snakes and serpents that created the bars to her dwelling seemed to strain and laugh as she stood there in shock, the scales and bodies shivering beneath her touch. She stepped back, quick and fearful, the whole of the cage moving with her as if suspended from a line up above. The whole assembly shook as she sprinted towards the latched door on the far side, the lock a simple thing she could reach through-

The thoughts of flight disappeared as she stood before the door and shook side to side, her mind finally catching up to the reality that no, she could not fly. She had no wings. No wand to slow her fall. She bit her lip before making up her mind regardless of the danger, hand reaching out only for her to immediately regret the decision.

Electricity flooding in through her fingers as soon as they touched the cool metal of the latch, a seed of pain that blossomed up her muscles and tendons until the whole of her body was cramped and shuddering. She fell backwards onto the soft metal flooring, body curled in on itself and a wordless scream leaping from her throat.

“Oh, well then let’s see what she tries next, eh? Go on Muddy, let’s have a show!”

\---

The simplest way to describe the manner in which she was leashed was by calling it an addiction.

She was drugged. Enraptured. Wholly captivated by Their aura and Their presence, attention held to no other. She was a simple Pet to a cruel Master and a bewitching Mistress; a lost creature from a lost cause chained to Their very will. And Gods above did They revel in seeing her broken. Whipped. Kneeling down by Their side as a show of absolute power.

After all, if They could manage to tame her, then why would anyone else ever deign to resist? If They could manage to have her support and back Their every word, why should any of the common folk dare breathe a word against Them?

The cage she was stuffed into was more an afterthought than anything, but Hermione wouldn’t complain. Not openly at least. It managed to keep her from being chained to the ground by Their chairs, or worse, left immobile and soundless. It kept her off the cold feeding ground and gave her a firm view of His dominion down below, and left Bellatrix with more than enough privacy to invade her little space and fuck her senseless against the cold floor, no one below them aware of the depravity up above.

But that little improvement to her station came later, long after the initial rounds of indoctrination.

After who knew how many hours spent listening above His seat as policies were drawn up, proposals for the Wizengamot gone over, theory taught and notes published. Hermione had no books in her new accommodations, no ready access to entertainment or distraction, nothing at all to occupy her time except the rolling emanation of Their power and the words that passed Their lips. She was allowed to question Them sometimes, a habit hard to drop even so many years after leaving a classroom, and in return her thoughts were brought down to an open forum. Bellatrix had explained one day, after going over the managing of Werewolf packs, that this was all for her benefit, for her accretion of knowledge. After all, she had never managed to finish out her education and a sound background was important for a Lady after all.

Hermione hadn’t felt like a Lady, back then. She’d felt herself a prisoner. A toy.

_ That _ Hermione would have baulked, little lost girl that she was. But as she was now? A  _ thing _ to be used and directed, willingly drowning beneath Their true selves? Here in the thrall of Their souls and words, she had no qualms about learning or listening, observing and practising. 

She basked underneath Their combined might.

It took her around a month or two before she finally managed to realize what was happening to her, to realize just how much she had begun to crave Their presence down below her. Whether Their attentions were directed at her or not, she wanted Them there nonetheless. The Dark Lord and His Mistress were a constant presence that she  _ needed. _

And only noticed when They left.

She hadn’t noticed when exactly the space below her grew cold and empty, but casual observation revealed her to be all alone except the few House Elves still serving in the drafty Castle. She started off the day simply enough, not worrying, not wondering, but soon her skin had begun to feel too tight. Soon her magic, meagre as it was now that she had no implement to channel it through, faltered even further.

She managed to last twenty-three days before  _ something _ within her snapped; twenty more before her mind lost track of itself, her consciousness stretched thin until finally it tore beneath the strain. She knew she had found a snake inscribed in gold along the edges of one side to her cage, its whole length one long bar that supported the ceiling and her imprisonment, a latch to hold her in. She ended up talking to it for hours in sibilant tones and odd diction, gibberish more than actual sentences or thoughts. The metal serpent wasn’t sapient, not truly, but it was able to converse in riddles and backtalk with enough convincing falsehood that her magic addled mind took all its sounds for truth.

At times she even forgot her own name.

When the doors below her finally opened to reveal Their return, she had flung herself at the bars of her cage with hands outstretched and grasping, hoping beyond hope that They were real, that They would favour her with some simple affection or even touch. Her cage had lowered towards the ground until she could see His red eyes darken with the knowledge that to her the absence had been Hell; His mind rapidly invading her own until all thought belonged to Him. Bellatrix had at least the good graces to look pleased with the events, smugly grinning and twisting where She stood,  _ something _ rolling off Her aura.

Hermione took the Black Witch’s fingers into herself for the first time that night, her own core lit up with power and pleasure as her body whipped between the floor and her Mistress. She was caught within a nearly endless cycle of Crucio’s, and the sweet song of a cursed knife. Blood patterned and decorated her home as the Black Witch carved out a place for Herself within Hermione’s skin.

It had only gotten worse -  _ better _ \- from there.

The whole devilish web of their relationship evolved around them at a far more advanced pace than Hermione had been expecting.

But really, what had she been expecting? There was no precedent for a situation such as this. There was nothing she could refer to in order to explain it all away. There were no rules for her to follow except the few that They gave her, and there were no books that she could read to explain the ever-present burn inside her chest.

More importantly, did she even really want those answers?

What exactly had They done to her that was unforgivable? Yes, They had locked her up, were keeping her here, wasting many of Their own moments in service to educating her in the regulations and miasma of their Feudal little society. Nothing had been torture unless she gave in and counted those moments where They would push so much of Their magic into the air that she could do little more than dance like the puppet They wanted and moan beneath the pressure. There had been no torture, not unless she counted the magic-drunk liaisons that Bellatrix kept initiating or the powerful glyphs She continued to carve into her skin.

Hermione couldn’t count those moments as torture, not truly. She loved them, depraved as it was. She had been fed, was kept clothed. Well, minimally clothed. Yes there was pain in response for her transgressions, and yes there were knives and curses bashed into her body, but even that had all stopped once she had learned to obey and follow Their rules.

And soon enough even Their rules had seemed not to matter, as it seemed some sort of amusement was derived from her testing of Their bounds.

In the end, this new world was worth more to her than the one she had inhabited while on the run. It was better than starving all alone while her fingers and toes all froze up, her mind running itself wild in an effort to occupy itself and distract from the endless monotony and pain. It was better than all the hopeless situations and the ever-present fear that had nearly killed her in its totality.

It was better than Death.

\---

**_After_ **

"Birdie, you awake up there?" 

\---

**_They shoved and shoved, they pulled and tugged._ **

**_And yet; it stayed, a soothing sting of blades._ **


	3. To War

**_After_ **

“Little Birdie, you awake up there?”

The noise stole away the remainder of Hermione’s sleep. Not that it had been particularly restful, filled with nightmares and memories as it was, but still it irked her. Sleeping when the space below her was occupied was a forbidden activity that left her craving the few nocturnal hours when no one and nothing seemed to bother her. Except for Bellatrix, as was proven in this instance. She grunted in answer to the Witch down below her, slowly rolling and crawling from the mattress to the floor until she was close enough to the bars of the cage to stuff one arm through and lazily wave it about. It was still dark beyond the windows to the Hall, words were best saved for later. 

The assembly of her cage began a slow and gentle rocking as the whole of it was pulled down by the Witch’s magic, lower and lower until eventually, she was close enough to feel the hard floor with cold fingertips. She retracted her arm in favour of keeping the fingers from being trapped, lazily grasping onto the bar as the metal finally contacted the floor with a dull thud. A body on the outside moved closer to the bars until Hermione had the mind to reach forward, lean over, basking beneath the intoxicating aroma of magic and cinnamon that Bellatrix seemed to exude. She sniffed, rolled, shuddered beneath the slow application of an aura that by now was more familiar than her own. With a shuddering breath, she came to her knees and bent low in supplication while her mind attempted to categorize and examine the feelings swimming beneath the top portion of her consciousness.

Bellatrix was dark, unquestionably so, but in their years together the Witch had come to hold a different meaning. Sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain, always comfort and forever  _ power.  _ Bellatrix was a taste that she craved, simple yet refined, a drug that she was sure she would never want to quit.

Even when the Witch was toying with her heartstrings, or painting her red with a whip and sharp claws.

The sound of metal on metal revealed the opening to her cell, Bellatrix’s soft footfalls reaching her ears shortly thereafter. A wand tip was forced up against the nape of her neck as she knelt there on the ground, body shivering with the cold that invaded through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Bellatrix laid a hand upon Hermione’s bicep before pulling her gently upwards in more of a display than actual guiding, aware as the Witch was that Hermione had bent to their desires long ago. A whispered spell divested her of the nightgown as they moved off towards the cage door, eyes sparkling and questions springing to mind in wonder at what the Witch must have in store for her.

Liaisons weren’t quite unusual after all this time with Bellatrix, the Witch would pretty her up in Victorian gowns and lacey strips whenever the mood took her, but nakedness was generally frowned upon when outside her living quarters. Generally, for she still had no concrete idea of what Voldemort thought on the matter. He never seemed to care much at all to what she did or wore, or said, so long as she bent herself to His whims and obeyed the call of His Magic, a task she took well to. She never minded His looks, not particularly at least, present as they were it was Bellatrix who had stolen the black pit her heart had become, and He was more a present eye that she could ignore. Respectfully, of course. Her only infraction and hesitation to answer His call had ended in a particularly harsh punishment that left a deep scar embedded right above her heart, a long strip of skin that would pulse and pain her whenever He was near. 

At least Bellatrix had learned to be more circumspect about Her work, each scar She laid upon her was magical and cursed but made to be flaunted and enjoyed; thin gashes that sang whenever the Witch was near, art more than anything.

The magic pulsing through her scars lit up stretches of her body with warmth and pleasure as the Witch behind her moved them both closer to the door, “Forward Muddy, out the door with you.” Bellatrix shoved the tip of Her wand further into Hermione’s neck, uncaring of comfort, caring only for movement.

This was…  _ unusual. _ Hermione wasn’t frightened, not truly, but worry had begun to poison her mind so much that even as she stepped down onto the cold marble below her cage, she tensed. Her mind filled with doubts, wonder at the stiffness of Bellatrix’s movements behind her, a thin stretch of her mind envisioning someone appearing from the shadows at her side with accusations of her escaping. Her trips outside these bars had all been few and far between, and only at the behest of the Dark Lord, never with Bellatrix alone.

Never in the middle of the night.

“Move it now Little Bird, or I’ll have you wearing feathers for a week this time.”

\---

**_Before_ **

Hermione  _ hated _ feathers.

She had hated them ever since she’d been a little girl and her father decided to tickle her with one. At the time the sensation had been so overwhelmingly foreign and uncomfortable that he had sworn and cursed lowly beneath his breath when her foot nearly broke his nose. Even her initial entrance to the Wizarding World had been fraught with hesitation and annoyance when it came time for her to deal with quills, of all things. They were pointy, they were annoying, and they were so very much less efficient than a bloody pen or pencil would have been.

And yet everyone surrounding her seemed to love the damned things. 

There was nothing for it though; she suffered through their use with all the practical efficiency that her parents had drilled into her. Weekends were spent stocking up on large quantities of the things, and ink as well, smiling with a grimace as she wrote page after page with annoying utensils.

When Hermione had first found herself pulled along to be at the beck and call of Bellatrix Black, she hadn’t quite been sure what would happen to her. At the time of her capture, she had wanted nothing more than a hot meal, a warm bed, and maybe some moments spent within the company of another as she drowned and basked beneath the magic rolling from Bellatrix’s shoulders. Her isolation had led her to impudence, loneliness, it had sparked a craving in her heart that being captured by the enemy couldn’t shake. 

Oh yes there had been torture after her arrival, many moments that seemed to stretch longer in her mind than they had been physically, seconds and hours that left her panting and bleeding as names and dates slipped past her lips, but to the Dark Witch she was more than just a rebel to be snuffed out, more than just an insurrectionist to be questioned.

She was a prize.

She was their little show dog, pulled out and trotted about to show how a Mudblood’s place wasn’t so bad in this new world. 

_ ‘Look,’ _ They said,  _ ‘If this horrid monstrosity can be tamed, can find herself in an agreeable position, then why can’t you?’ _

The fact that her home was a cage far above the ground was secondary to the Media’s portrayal of a sad and remorseful woman, the Golden Girl gone regretful. To the public, at least. Within the Great Hall she had still cantered about with somewhat of a sour mouth, an angry retort on her lips for anything and everything, all her questions and thoughts unfiltered.

One day she had asked Bellatrix if her placement in the Cage was a result of some twisting of the Black Family Crest; three jackdaws in flight, or ravens, she wasn’t quite sure what they were. The Order had been unwilling to talk about the Blacks, and Sirius had hated his family enough to never entertain her mountain of queries.

Bellatrix, being the absolute nutter that she was, had taken umbrage at the question. How? Why? Hermione wasn’t sure. She  _ was _ sure that whatever reason it had been was likely infantile and ridiculous, but that didn’t matter when the Witch held her within absolute authority. Bellatrix had decided then and there that since Hermione was in a birdcage, well, she best look the part.

Meaning feathers. False wings. An excruciatingly painful charm laid over her golden floor that applied a shock whenever she would touch it, a charm that left Hermione stuck up along the bars and ridges that filled the ceiling space of her new home. Numb fingers dead from grasping, black feathers tied and stretched into a revealing yet sleeved chemise, black and green plumage falling down her back.

Her voice stolen with a spell, replaced instead with birdsong.

Bellatrix was Mad. Hermione had known it before, knew it more now, and still, she had tried her best to appease her Lord and Lady. She avoided the electrical shocks whenever she could, her body at the minimum was strong enough even then to let her hop from place to place among the upper reaches of her cage. That day of playing fowl had been the only time she received that punishment, and it had become Bellatrix’s favourite taunt even years later.

A constant threat to toy with her.

\---

**_After_ **

The memory and words were enough of a threat to have Hermione walking forward without complaint as the comforting grasp of Bellatrix’s hand clasped overtop her shoulder. The Witch steered her forward and around the large table that had been set up within the centre of the Hall for meetings and business, her eyes only just ghosting over where He would sit at the head. Had she been a younger version of herself, filled with more ideals and moors than she was now, she would have baulked at walking around the room naked, with a woman leading her from the back. Now though? Now it was a comfort to have a guide behind her, pushing her forward with a warm hand and a soothing blanket of magic.

“Where are you taking me,” she asked, as they moved past the entrance to the Hall.

“Our Lord wants to see you.”

\---

Voldemort was, as always, a Titan. Magic given form, power and fortitude inhabiting physical space, unyielding will and energy unending. He  _ reeked _ of magic. The aura that fell around Him and His quarters was just as heavy as the moment before a thunderstorm; electricity crackled and ozone invaded Hermione’s senses, blanketed her tongue. The Witch at her back was nowhere near as much as He was, and yet still Bellatrix was a goddess in Her own right.

Hermione stood between the two of them, Voldemort on a humble wooden chair that He lorded over as a throne, Bellatrix behind her with an arm curled around her waist. It took all of her willpower to maintain her composure enough to avoid falling to her knees like some love potioned schoolgirl.

They were both too much. 

And she would never get enough of Them.

They were a drug rationed out while working beneath her cage, some foreign exuberance to send delight and terror running through Hermione’s veins. Bellatrix had always visited her most often, whether for a carnal visitation or lengthy debates around the application of specific policies, but when Voldemort deigned to visit her, she was His. He was aloof, a Master to a nation reborn, a King of old bred New. His time was spent however He wished it; hours spent in meetings or abroad, months locked away in His quarters, and when He gave her attention she would always remember to prostrate in a show of gratitude. A wash of magic upon her core had Bellatrix leaning forward to nip along the pulse of Hermione’s neck as something warm and cloying filled her body. 

Bellatrix was aware of her position, of the heat now invading her limbs, and the arm wrapped about her waist dipped lower to tease and caress with sharp nails and warm fingers.

Her Lord looked on impassively at the display, “You’ve been here how long now, Ms. Granger? Three years? Four?”

Hermione swallowed around the knot in her throat, “Yes, my Lord. I believe it will be four in a month or so.”

“Are you comfortable here?” His red eyes narrowed down at her, “Comfortable in your position? Your lot?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, only for a moan to steal her words when Bellatrix’s fingers dipped far inside of her, palm rubbing flatly against swollen flesh and dripping heat. A pressure along her back had her leaning and slowly falling, knees cold upon the floor as Bellatrix guided them both. 

“Y-yes, my Lord, I am.”

Her words were as honest as she had ever been, just as the last time she had been asked these particular questions. The situation she was in, however, was so much farther from the comforting audience she had endured the last time this was asked of her. It was…  _ different, _ now. Everything about this was different, from the moment Bellatrix had awoken her to the fervent movements of the Witch at her back.

_ She, _ after so many years, had herself become odd.

And yet her words were truth.

“Then I believe it’s high time we moved to improve your station. I’ll make this clear to you now, Bellatrix was the one who suggested this to me. You’ll have no one else to blame should you come to resent what I’ll ask of you. Knowing that,” amusement painted His inhuman face, “But not knowing what I’ll ask, do you accept whatever terms I lay out?”

Her mouth hung open, dry and sticky, hands at her side jittering and clenching while Bellatrix continued Her ministrations. Her mind couldn’t understand what He was offering her, wasn’t sure if any of it was real, but she would agree. There was never once a question of that. She would do anything and everything that could keep her floating between the two of Them. Anything to keep her heart pumping and pulse racing, head far above the clouds as They stood below her. Or beside her; she wasn’t very picky after so many years around Them.

She bit back a moan as Bellatrix picked up Her pace, “Yes, my Lord. I’ll do it, whatever it is.”

“Good.” The smile passing over His thinned lips was mesmerizing in how truly inhuman it was, something that masqueraded as a Man while deep down it was wholly different. Hermione stared for a moment or two before Bellatrix pushed into her back, forehead slowly touching the floor while above them He sent out wave after wave of magic.

“Good.”

\---

“Do you really think that this’ll work?”

Hermione swayed side to side as she awaited the Witch’s reply, her heart thudding in her chest as she looked up towards where she had been told the targets all resided. There was no immediate answer, nothing verbal at least, but when the Witch lay a harsh palm against her shoulder there was nothing more Hermione could do but relax and steady her breath. This was it, her mission and her proving. The only chance she would get to ensure that she had a place by Their side forevermore. 

A place in this New World.

The contact lingered until she was shivering with excitement, hand reaching over to grasp at the hidden form of Bellatrix.

She could do this. If she didn’t they would-

Well.

It was best not to think about the possibilities of failure. She was smart, she knew more magic than she had ever before, and the new wand in her holster would help her see this night through. She would succeed.

Or die in the attempt.


End file.
